The wind was crueler than usual that morning. Or maybe it was just me.

  The first-year Gryffindor vs. Ravencw Quidditch match had all the pomp you’d expect from Hogwarts: enchanted banners waving from the stands, enchanted brass horns bring, and Madam Hooch standing at the center of the pitch like a wartime general about to send children to war.

  Jake was bouncing on his heels like he’d overdosed on sugar and nerves.

  “I’m going to score at least three goals,” he said for the fourth time, checking his gloves again. “Maybe four. I feel it in my wand arm.”

  “You’re holding your broom,” I pointed out.

  “Exactly! Magic is flowing!” He grinned like a man marching into a battle he couldn’t lose.

  Evie Lockhart appeared beside me in the stands, wearing Gryffindor colors wrapped around her neck like a soft decration of loyalty. Or curiosity. Or both.

  “You don’t like crowds,” she said, not a question.

  “I like what I learn from them,” I said. “They forget to watch themselves when everyone’s looking elsewhere.”

  She tilted her head toward the pitch. “And what are you watching for?”

  “The fall.”

  She gave me a look, half amused, half unsure. “Always so grim, Caelum.”

  “I’m rarely wrong.”

  The Match BeginsMadam Hooch raised her whistle and the sound shattered the air like a curse.

  Balls soared.

  Brooms unched.

  The stands roared.

  “AND THEY’RE OFF!” boomed a voice from above. Some second-year Hufflepuff boy, chosen for his theatrical volume and love of his own voice. “Gryffindor takes immediate possession! Dawson with the Quaffle, and—OH! That was a beautiful dodge from Chaser Rebecca Moore!”

  Jake soared like someone born with wings and poor impulse control. He was fast, reckless, and stupidly brave. He weaved past two Ravencws and tossed the Quaffle through the first goal hoop.

  “DAWSON SCORES! That’s one for Gryffindor! First-years or not, that boy flies like he’s got a death wish!”

  Evie ughed beside me. “He’ll be unbearable after this.”

  “He already is.”

  But he was good. In his own chaotic way.

  Even I could admit that.

  I watched the game, not just for fun—but with the same eyes that had once analyzed death marches and field maneuvers. The Sharingan remained dormant. But my instincts never slept. Every movement, every pass, every arc of broom and body — I saw the patterns unfolding.

  Which is probably why I saw it before it happened.

  The FallRavencw’s beater, a thick-armed boy named Penley, had lined up his swing for far too long. The Bludger didn’t just fly — it rocketed straight toward Jake from above. A precise angle. No time to dodge.

  “JAKE—”

  It hit.

  Hard.

  The Quaffle tumbled from his hands mid-air.

  Jake flipped sideways, his broom losing bance under the sudden jolt.

  And then he fell.

  Twenty feet, maybe more, until he crashed into the grass below with a sound like someone stomping a pumpkin.

  The stadium fell into stunned silence.

  Something inside me cracked.

  I didn’t mean to.

  But I felt it. The fre of heat. The shift in my chest. The tearing open of a dam I had kept closed since I was old enough to understand I wasn’t in my own world anymore.

  Bloodlust.

  That killing intent. That primal force older than magic, older than reason. The kind that said: Attack. Kill. Destroy what hurt yours.

  It poured out of me in an instant. Not in screams or rage. Just... silence that pressed on the bones. Like a sword drawn but not yet swung.

  The wind changed.

  Every professor in the stands noticed. Some of the senior students looked up like they’d smelled lightning. A few first-years clutched their chests without knowing why.

  I inhaled.

  Then exhaled.

  And buried it.

  Again.

  Like I always had.

  Evie was staring at me. Pale. Wide-eyed.

  “You—” she whispered.

  “I’m fine,” I said, already standing. My voice ft. Cold. Controlled. “He’s not.”

  I walked down the stands.

  I didn’t run.

  Didn’t need to.

  Every part of me had already assessed the risk. Jake wasn’t dead. He was breathing. Unconscious. Likely concussed. Possible cracked ribs. I didn’t need magic to know that.

  But I did need to get him to the Hospital Wing.

  Madam Hooch waved me over. “Can you carry him? I’ll send for stretcher charms—”

  “I’ve got him.”

  His weight was nothing.

  He groaned as I hoisted him up, his head lolling slightly on my shoulder.

  Evie followed. Wordless. Watching.

  The Walk to the Hospital Wing“I’ve never felt that before,” she said quietly as we crossed the green halls of Hogwarts. “That… that pressure. Like everything around me might shatter.”

  “You didn’t feel it,” I murmured. “You survived it.”

  “That was you, wasn’t it?”

  I didn’t answer.

  Because I didn’t need to.

  She kept walking, but slower, her thoughts spinning. I could hear them without Legilimency.

  Jake, lying unconscious. Me, walking as if I’d done this a thousand times. Because I had. Just not here.

  We reached the Hospital Wing.

  Madam Pomfrey began tending to Jake immediately.

  “He’ll be fine,” she said. “Rest. Little potion. And luck.”

  Evie sat on the edge of a nearby cot, arms crossed. “I’m not asking what those eyes are,” she said. “But… I think I want to be there when you decide to use them again.”

  I looked at her.

  The red of my Sharingan reflected faintly in the gss of the window behind her.

  “You might regret that.”

  “Maybe,” she said. “But maybe not.”

  [End of Chapter 15]